


Bananas

by PUNIFA



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AND BANANAS, M/M, OR RATHER BANANA FRENCH TOAST, Sherstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:19:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PUNIFA/pseuds/PUNIFA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is having a bit of trouble getting Sherlock to eat anything more than bananas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Bananas,” Lestrade bellowed, slapping his palm against the desk, and the young sergeant entering the room started and nearly dumped his paperwork on the floor. He shuffled nervously over and set the sheaf of papers on the edge of Lestrade’s desk.

“…What was that, sir?”

“Bananas. That’s all he’ll eat is bananas. You can’t sustain a recovering addict on  _bananas._ ”

The sergeant scratched his head and wrinkled his wide brow. There’d been word through the yard that their boss had taken on a charge, but he hadn’t been sure if that was just word of mouth wreaking havoc like it does.

Lestrade yanked over the files, sifting through them and grumbling beneath his breath about vitamins and protein. The sergeant had just turned to head out when Lestrade snapped his head up.

“You – Dimmock, isn’t it? – what can I do? If he dies of malnutrition I’m as good as a murderer.”

Dimmock paused and chewed his lip. He supposed he should really get used to the fact that the Yard isn’t quite as stiff and professional as he’d anticipated (perhaps he should have settled with that when his chair fell apart his first day in the office). “Have you tried cooking something with bananas in it?”

Lestrade stared almost blankly at him and Dimmock was struck by the mildly amusing thought that the DI couldn’t cook. “Pancakes. Or French toast, if you’re worried about the protein.”

The DI looked almost hopeless for a moment, then he flattened his lips and nodded grimly. Dimmock left the room stifling laughter – though he genuinely hoped that Lestrade would be successful in nourishing his addict.

—

            There was egg on the wall. Possibly maple syrup as well and definitely a splash or two of milk, but the most crucial components – the bread and the bananas – were miraculously intact and halfheartedly cobbled into some sort of presentation on a plate. Lestrade was banging through his cabinets for powdered sugar – the recipe said to dust the finished product with powdered sugar, and Sherlock seemed at the least to like sweet things, so he’d be damned if he was going to leave it out. All that he could find, though, were some packets of sugar he’d swiped from the coffee room at work, and he sighed and sheepishly sprinkled them onto the bananas.

            He poured a glassful of milk and grabbed up the plate, staring worryingly at the slightly overdone bits that were partially obscured by hunks of banana. Then he smelled something very distinct over the scent of his concoction, and he groaned and stomped his way into the living room. Sherlock’s knot of curls and a puff of smoke appeared over the back of the couch.

            “Put it out.”

            “You have to let me have  _something_.”

            “I’ve got you something, now  _put it out._  I think I established pretty well no smoking in the flat. God knows you wreck it enough already.” Sherlock grumbled but dropped his cigarette into a half-full coffee mug,  then folded his hands on his stomach and waited for Lestrade to bring over his ‘something.’

            “Git.” Lestrade came round the sofa and shoved Sherlock’s legs aside, settling beside him and plopping the plate on the table in front of them. Sherlock stared at it suspiciously.

            “What’s this?”

            “Your banana fix.”

            Sherlock’s lips twitched slightly at Lestrade’s choice of words but he didn’t reach for the plate.

            “I’d rather not risk food poisoning.”

            “I’ll feed it to you by hand if I have to, I swear.”

            Sherlock yawned and shoved his feet into Lestrade’s lap, stretching his toes, and Lestrade squared his jaw and snatched up the plate and fork. He nudgesd the boy’s feet off of his thighs and piled up a forkful of toast, leaning over and holding it in front of Sherlock’s face. He stared back at him impassively, though the corners of his eyes wrinkled slightly with a restrained smile.

            “I’ll hide your cigarettes, Sherlock, don’t think I won’t.”

            “I’m capable of buying my own.”

            “Just eat half the toast and all of the bananas.”

            “If you feed every bite to me.”

            Lestrade blinked in surprise. He’d expected the bartering to go on until Sherlock wore him down enough that he would just give in and require that he eat only the bananas, but he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to feed him properly. He swallowed and nodded. “Right. Well, open up then.”

            As he passed the forkful of food past Sherlock’s lips he flushed – because the boy’s bright eyes quickly disappeared and he made a soft, appreciative noise, chewing slowly, throat stretching as he swallowed. Lestrade cut another chunk and Sherlock’s reaction didn’t lessen, not even as they worked their way through the entire meal.

            When the clink of metal against glass didn’t come Sherlock cracked open his eyes and licked the syrup from his lips, then stared intently at the sweet, viscous remains still painted across the plate. He flicked his eyes up to Lestrade and widened them hopefully. Lestrade immediately shook his head.

            “I’m not scraping up all of the maple syrup for you.”

            “Of course not. The fork would be impractical; you should use your fingers.”

            Lestrade simply shook his head again and pushed the milk towards Sherlock then headed to the kitchen to dump the plate into the dishwasher, feeling at once pleased and unsettled.

—

“Dimmock tells me you were having trouble feeding the stray. How did that go?” Sally set Greg’s coffee at his elbow and made room for herself on the edge of his desk. He propped his face on his knuckles to block out the flush spilling over his cheeks.

Sherlock had agreed to eat whatever Lestrade cooked for him, so long as it didn’t involve brussel sprouts, but only if he fed him by hand and gave him the leavings off his fingers afterwards. And, well… Lestrade couldn’t very well let the boy starve, could he?


	2. Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing much to do on Sundays.

There’s nothing much to do on Sundays. Greg doesn’t mind. Sherlock does.

There’s nothing much to do even more on this Sunday. The criminals seem to be resting (or plotting). Greg is stretched out on the sofa, new headphones fixed over his ears (courtesy of Sally) streaming out music that really should be anything but relaxing. But he’s utterly serene, humming along not-quite-softly, because soft wouldn’t really match the song.

The headphones must be doing a marvelous job, because he hasn’t heard the whisper of a gripe from Sherlock. He expects he’ll open his eyes to some disaster, or that he’ll smell cigarette smoke, or worse. But everything remains a suitable, Sunday-calm, and Greg dozes off with a smile gently turning his lips.

It  _is_  a smell that wakes him, but it’s nothing abrasive - it’s something delicate and comforting and he sits up slowly, tugging off his headphones just in time to hear the kitchen timer buzzing its way across the counter.

Sherlock should have gone off to terrorize someone by now - but sure enough his head pokes into the living room, a faint dusting of flour powdering his hair grey. “Go back to sleep.”

Greg swiftly obeys. He’d rather not let whatever disaster Sherlock is concocting ruin his Sunday.

When Greg next wakes up, it’s because he smells something burning; the heavy sulfurous scent of a lit match. He bolts up this time and is greeted by a flame - a very tiny, innocent flame puckering off the end of a slender candle. A candle stuck in the middle of a meticulously frosted cake. His eyebrow shoots up. Sherlock deposits the heavy plate onto his knees and hands him a fork.

Greg stares at the cake as if it’s a viper, though he’s slightly amused.

Sherlock huffs and crosses his skinny arms.

“What’s this for?”

“It’s your birthday.”

“Yes, and I’d like to live to see another one,” Greg says, lips twitching with a held back grin. He’d been wondering if this tranquility was some sort of gift from the young detective, but he honestly hadn’t thought he’d notice something like a birthday. Greg is far more touched than he’ll let on, and he snuffs out the candle but doesn’t do anything otherwise.

“I wouldn’t have you dead. Eat.” Sherlock stares at Greg petulantly as Greg takes his time. He leisurely scoops the edge of the fork through the thick layer of creamy beige frosting, gathering up a sizable hunk of spongy yellow cake. He pretends to sniff at it, then deposits it onto his tongue and immediately smiles. 

“Banana?”

“Of course.” Sherlock’s hand darts out, pale fingers binding around Greg’s wrist as he carefully leans forward so as not to disturb the cake in Greg’s lap. He presses their mouths together softly, tongue wandering over the crease of Greg’s lips. Greg lets the fork fall onto the cake, coating the handle in icing as he sifts his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, disturbing the flour from the dark strands. 

“Selfish of you,” he murmurs contentedly.

“Happy birthday,” Sherlock retaliates, pulling back and retrieving the fork. He snatches a bite for himself before handing the utensil back to Greg.

The rest of their Sunday continues in complete peace (nevermind that the kitchen is an utter mess), with the cake disappearing very very gradually between them, its consumption constantly hindered because Sherlock insists that it tastes better off of Greg’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning another part for this, but then a dear friend's birthday rolled around and this is what I wrote her!

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sherstradeday2k12 over on tumblr.  
> Fantastic artwork by the lovely geniusbee can be seen here: http://geniusbee.tumblr.com/post/26617391152/happy-sherstrade-day-a-little-illustration-of


End file.
